


Breath

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bruises, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punching, Semi-Public Sex, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Saruhiko’s not meeting his eyes, is staring at the Homra mark on his shoulder and thumbing the collar of his shirt wider with this glazed-over expression that going through Misaki like fire, until when he tries to reach for fury all he comes up with is mild frustration." Misaki finds out it's more convenient to go without some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



“Fuck,” Misaki spits as Saruhiko draws back enough to allow him a lungful of air. “You could just come over to my  _apartment_ , Saru.”

“I don’t like it there,” Saruhiko announces. There’s a petulant whine under the words, childish irritation that sets Misaki’s teeth on edge, but Saruhiko’s not meeting his eyes, is staring at the Homra mark on his shoulder and thumbing the collar of his shirt wider with this glazed-over expression that going through Misaki like fire, until when he tries to reach for fury all he comes up with is mild frustration.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he growls, and Saruhiko ducks in close to replace the slide of his thumb with his lips instead. There’s a catch of teeth, a scrape across the thin-sensitive skin, and Misaki jerks at the sensation, hisses near-protest at the friction. “ _Fuck_ , Saru, don’t  _bite_  me.”

“I’m not,” Saruhiko hisses, but if his teeth aren’t caught at Misaki’s skin it says nothing about the dig of his fingers against the loose white of the other’s sweater, the pressure so sharp Misaki can feel the contact sinking into the gaps between his ribs. It makes him jerk and snap protest, but when he goes to shove Saruhiko’s shoulder the motion fails to get the reaction he wants. Instead Saruhiko goes boneless, stumbles sideways as he gives like liquid to the force of Misaki’s punch, and he’s back before Misaki has had time to process, pinning him in close against the wall and fitting a knee between his.

“Misaki,” he slurs, so slow and so hot it makes him sound drunk, tipsy off the syllables of the other’s name.

“Get the fuck off me,” Misaki insists. His punch catches Saruhiko’s jaw this time, knocks the dreamy fog of his gaze off-center and lurches his balance away, but Saruhiko just catches himself with a hand at Misaki’s shoulder and by virtue of letting himself sag heavy and boneless against the other. For a minute Misaki can feel the lines of Saruhiko’s open jacket digging into his shirt, pressed hard enough against him to leave imprints through the weight of his sweater; then Saruhiko has his feet under him again, is leaning back in to cut off the line of the sunlight illuminating Misaki’s face. His eyes are blown wide like they always are when Misaki sees them, so dark he can’t even make out the color for the shadows settled under Saruhiko’s eyelashes. Then the hand at his shoulder skids sideways, up and bracing at the back of his neck, and Misaki knows he should drag himself away and free, but he doesn’t. He stays where he is, turns his head up in spite of the scowl still sharp at his mouth, and when Saruhiko’s mouth hits his again he tastes like nostalgia, sweet only in memory and bitter in the harsh present.

It’s protest that Misaki is reaching for when he opens his mouth. It’s not an invitation, or at least not intended that way; his fingers are drawing tight at Saruhiko’s jacket, preparing for a fist-fight at such close quarters as to render Saruhiko’s preferred knives useless. But Saruhiko makes a noise into his mouth, a desperate broken note that sounds like a moan even muffled against Misaki’s lips, and when Misaki sucks in air it turns into a startled groan in the back of his throat as the heat coalesces into an ache low in his stomach.

“Misaki,” Saruhiko slurs at his lips, licks hard and wet against the inside of the other’s mouth. He’s too close, now, his hips lined up with Misaki’s leg, and he’s falling into a rocking rhythm that leaves absolutely no doubt of his own arousal. Misaki reaches for anger, tries to find disgust that Saruhiko is grinding against his hip in broad daylight, barely in the shadows of the alleyway they managed to make it to, but all he finds is the heat, the betrayal of his breathing turning itself into a groan as he jerks his head back far enough to escape the gravity of Saruhiko’s mouth.

“Fuck, Saru,” he blurts, turns his head sideways so he can watch the end of the narrow street for too-curious passersby likely to come close enough to investigate. There’s no one there, as there is never anyone there, and Saruhiko is sucking at his neck, now, leaving a path of warm wet along the curve of Misaki’s throat that stutters his heart in his chest. Dark hair tickles his cheek, catches under his chin, and Misaki can feel himself caving to temptation in the moment before he unwinds his hold from Saruhiko’s jacket and reaches down for the other’s pants instead.

“What the fuck, are you some kind of exhibitionist?” Misaki spits, trying to make the words and insult and failing miserably, perhaps because of the way his voice hitches as he fits his fingers between Saruhiko’s hips and his own leg. The fabric of the other’s pants is thin enough that it molds to fit between them, offers more than enough detail to make one thing abundantly clear.

“ _Fuck_.” Misaki reaches for Saruhiko’s belt, drags at the weight of the buckle a moment before he gives it up as unnecessary in favor of just forcing his hand past the other’s waistband. Saruhiko moans into his neck, fingers working hard against Misaki’s shoulder like he’s seeking some impossible purchase, and Misaki’s fingers drag against skin, heat, hard-flushed resistance without any trace of the barrier he already knew he wouldn’t find.

“Don’t you even wear  _underwear_?” he hisses, low and biting, but his fingers are catching into a weird desperate hold at the head of Saruhiko’s cock and the other is too busy whimpering meaningless syllables against his shoulder to answer. He’s hot to the touch, burning adrenaline out into Misaki’s blood, and when Misaki moves his hand -- a jerky motion at best, lacking anything that could be called grace -- Saruhiko jolts like he’s been shocked, like his knees can’t hold him up, like the painful grip he sustains at Misaki’s shoulder is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Not when I might see you, Misaki,” he manages, a gasp of sound hot as blood, and Misaki moves again, reaching as far as he can with the catch of the waistband raw against his wrist. He’s pretty sure it’s scraping into a bruise, can feel the discomfort of the pressure pinching at his skin, but he doesn’t want to pull away long enough to work Saruhiko’s belt open, and the heat firing him with each choking inhale from Saruhiko’s throat is enough to push the pain aside as irrelevant for the moment. It’s far more important to keep dragging those gasping noises out of the other, reaction borne of pleasure instead of pain for once, until when Saruhiko’s shoulders hunch and he sucks in a long shivering inhale Misaki knows without being told. He tightens the anxious hold of his fingers, moves as fast as he can manage, and Saruhiko groans so loud Misaki is sure it will echo and give them away, spills trembling and hot against the catch of the other’s palm. It’s hard to keep moving -- the bruising hurt becomes far sharper, with proof of the other’s satisfaction obtained -- but Saruhiko doesn’t seem to mind, just shivers through the pulses of heat until he’s slumped boneless and barely-standing against Misaki’s shoulders.

“Get off me,” Misaki growls, drags his hand free all at once with a flinch for the starburst of pain that comes with it. “You made a mess.”

“Better your hand than my clothes,” Saruhiko purrs, turning his head so the shape of the words turn into the caress of teeth on skin. Misaki shivers, helpless to the tremor of reaction in his blood, tries to shove the other back and away with his sticky hand and clean alike. But there’s a hold at his wrist, fingertips digging aching pain in over his new-formed bruises, and while Misaki is hunching forward and crying out in the first instinctive rejection of the hurt Saruhiko is dropping to his knees, landing against the pavement with so much force Misaki can hear the impact of his knees with the ground.

“Jesus,” Misaki blurts, but Saruhiko doesn’t seem to notice the pain of his landing; he’s not even looking at Misaki’s face anymore, is offering the dizzy-dark of his gaze for the hand caught and braced in his fingers. Misaki’s eyes catch the slick of Saruhiko’s tongue over his lip, his breathing stalled at the visual, and then there’s damp at his palm, the wet slide of Saruhiko licking the spill of come right off his skin. Misaki snaps something, he doesn’t know what:  _stop_ , maybe, or  _Saru!_  shocked and hot. Maybe it’s just a curse, a word to fit the embarrassed arousal that tears through him like wildfire, that leaves his spine curving in to reach for the magnet of Saruhiko’s existence.

Saruhiko looks up, then. His lips are wet, his tongue still trailing against them, and Misaki is sure the motion is unnecessary and doesn’t care in the least. He’s aching with the heat in his blood, the desire radiating out into him far more of a burden than the bruise under Saruhiko’s fingers, until when the other reaches out for the front of his shorts without looking away from the hold he has on Misaki’s gaze Misaki can’t help the whine of anticipation that breaks from his mouth.

It only takes a moment -- Saruhiko has always had dextrous fingers -- and then the button is undone, the zipper is down, and when Saruhiko catches to pull Misaki’s shorts open the weight of the fabric is enough to risk them falling entirely. Misaki sucks in an overhot breath of anticipation, reaches to catch at the waistband to keep them halfway in place, and that’s when Saruhiko looks down, and frowns, and hisses “ _Misaki_ ,” like a curse.

“What?” Misaki says, dazed by heat and struggling for words. Saruhiko’s mouth is falling into a frown, his eyes going dark with irritation, and Misaki can’t find understanding for what’s frustrated him.

“You’re wearing  _boxers_ ,” Saruhiko spits, the words biting into friction on his tongue.

Misaki’s forehead creases in confusion, his own heat-parted lips collapsing into a frown of his own. “What the  _fuck_ , Saru, of course I’m--” Saruhiko leans forward, the movement too startling fast for Misaki to hold to his line of thought, and then his mouth is  _there_ , his breathing pressed flush against Misaki’s cock through the thin fabric covering him.

Misaki doesn’t know what sound he makes. He does know that his head goes back, tilted sharply up so it thuds against the wall, but the ache of impact doesn’t make it far enough into his thoughts to be of real concern. His hips are rocking forward too, the movement as unplanned and reflexive as that too-steep tilt of his head, and then there’s hands at his hips, fingers digging vicious stability against him. There’s another burst of friction, Saruhiko pressing his mouth as close as he can get to Misaki’s cock; when he sucks Misaki whines in an incoherent plea for more. Saruhiko’s breath is warm even before he slicks his tongue across the taut fabric; then it’s wet, too, clinging damp to Misaki’s skin like his clothes are sticking to his cock.

“Saru,” Misaki manages, reaches out to grab at Saruhiko’s hair with his free hand. “Let me--let me get my boxers off.”

“No,” Saruhiko growls, so low Misaki can feel the sound tremble through his knees. “You should have gone without in the first place.”

“ _What_?” Misaki blurts, but Saruhiko is coming back in, closing his mouth as close around Misaki’s length as he can manage with the other still half-dressed. Misaki is aching with want of more, his legs trembling and spine sparking with anxious want, but he can’t move with Saruhiko’s hands pinning his hips and it’s  _almost_  enough, he can feel the suction of Saruhiko’s mouth against him and the drag of Saruhiko’s tongue; it’s just barely too far, the friction carried by cloth instead of skin, a barrier he can’t cross. His hand tightens in Saruhiko’s hair, his breath sticks in his throat, and Saruhiko presses closer, sucks harder. Misaki can’t tell what he’s doing -- he might be sucking, might be licking, might even be offering the faintest suggestion of teeth against the press of his lips -- but Misaki’s spine is arching tense anyway, he can feel the leading flush of heat spill wet to stick between his clothes and the head of his cock. Saruhiko hums something, maybe anger, maybe satisfaction, slides up to suck the bitter through the damp fabric, and Misaki jerks and groans, helpless to the sticky-catch of the friction.

“Saru,” he says again, and then, when Saruhiko mumbles something unintelligible, “Saru,  _please_.”

There’s a pause, a breath while Saruhiko pulls away. Misaki blinks hard, the clinging heat of his wet boxers going chill without the press of Saruhiko’s mouth, looks down to meet Saruhiko’s eyes. They’re dark, endless shadows he can’t pull apart, and for a moment he thinks he sees capitulation there, surrender to his half-formed plea.

But then: “ _No_ ,” Saruhiko says again, a pulled-long drawl, and when he leans back in Misaki shuts his eyes, and sags against the wall, and gasps a choking inhale. Saruhiko’s mouth is fire, his fingers bright points of pressure at Misaki’s hips; Misaki’s thoughts are going hazy, melting like glass in a furnace, and then Saruhiko catches the wet fabric against the head of Misaki’s cock and sucks hard and fast and Misaki is coming, sensation jolting through him in desperate waves as he whimpers and shudders through the heat. Saruhiko stays where he is until Misaki stops shaking; then he draws back, lets his hold on the other’s hips go so he can lift a hand to wipe needlessly across the damp at his mouth.

“Fuck,” Misaki says, bracing against the wall so he can keep his feet under him. His boxers are clinging to him twice over now, wet from Saruhiko’s mouth and sticky from his own come. “What the  _fuck_ , Saru?”

Saruhiko looks up at him. For a moment his eyes are hot, radiating impossible fire from the shadow in them; then he pushes to his feet all at once, lifts a hand to adjust the frames of his glasses, and by the time he reemerges he looks composed again, his chin up and the slash of his smirk like ice in Misaki’s veins.

“Wear fewer clothes next time,  _Misaki_ ,” he orders, the words biting so deep Misaki can’t think to reject them before Saruhiko is turning, is walking away, is  _leaving_. He jolts forward, moves to follow, but his shorts are still undone, his boxers still clinging to the sticky mess he’s made of himself. It’s a moment while he weighs his options, another to fasten his clothes back in place over the wet, and by the time he stumbles out to the street Saruhiko is nowhere to be seen.

The walk back to Misaki’s apartment is short in distance but long in discomfort; by the time Misaki get inside so he can shed his sticky clothes and make for the shower, his frown feels like it’s permanently fixed on his face, the water insufficient to wash his sticky skin clean for long minutes. It feels like Saruhiko clinging to him, the other’s touch caught against his skin as well as in the bruised fingerprints starting to rise into blue-marked visibility at Misaki’s hips. He turns the water on higher, ducks his head to the spray, and when he shuts his eyes the steam feels like the pattern of familiar breath on his skin.


End file.
